I suppose none of us really appreciates the everyday experience. I had occasion last week to spend a few precious moments re-creating in the tranquility and transparent peace of beautiful downtown Darlinghurst.
Now your Darlo' has a number of characteristics which get fair up my nose, and I expend an inordinate portion of every waking hour conspiring to avoid its harrowing byways and toll-ways. And yet, far too often lately, I find myself enduring the early morning warble of the lesser bearded twit and its fellow traveller, the aptly named lunatic drongo. (Genus: Jackhammerus; family: greatnusianceia). It's a continuing disappointment to my fellow ornithologists that old Jackhammerus is so regular in his habits. He has long since ceased to be any sort of observational challenge in the often demanding world of trench renovation, and because of his characteristically harsh mating call, is infinitely more identifiable than the rarer, yet closely related, Supervisor bird, (Engineersareus bellyacheai).
In fact, because of his boring regularity, the metropolitan branch of the Australasian Ornithologists Union has done away with Greenwich Mean, and now takes its cue from the 7 am call of old, infuriating Jackhammerus. You see, it doesn't seem to matter to him that your normally tranquil country nights' sleep has been continually interrupted by the hauntingly threatening wail of the Ambulance falcon, or the bone-shaking rumbling nocturnal dance of diesel Booby. Come 7am, it's their turn, and not a second short of a 9am tea break is going to stop them. At times like this, there may be mitigation in genuscide.
This observation apart, there are more pressing concerns for the residents of the central west;, re-Darlo. As an unintended consequence of some poorly targeted, bottom-up funding of inaction research at the Burdekin Hotel in Oxford Street, the resident committee for the Trans-geographical Placement of Pub Foundation Stones (CTPPFS) has stumbled across a curious and worrying anomaly. Apparently, the Burdekin Hotel is on the move. West. Yes folks, it's heading our way!.
And that's not the all of it. To date, the CTPPFS has established a worryingly positive correlation between movements by the local Blood-House and the rest of Darlinghurst. What this means, and I don't want to cause any panic locally, is that there is mounting evidence that Darlinghurst (and its manifest ornithological irritations) is heading west. Of course, we will all be relying on the sturdy Cornish stock of Lithgow to form the first line of defence, but there could well come a time when even Lucknow will be called upon to justify its name. Heaven help them if they ever squeeze past Orange. Cumnock awaits!
Luckily, courtesy of the Californians, there has recently been a breakthrough in the advance detection of such unnatural seismic social disasters. No more do we have to be awake to the unexplained nervousness of horses or the erratic baking performances of normally calm flocks of CWA matrons. No more the skittish behaviour of winery dogs and their owners or the unexpected observation of an irregular wobble in the trajectories of the Planets. No, no more. It's all become much more straightforward.
What west coast research seems to have identified is what's called, in twitching circles, the advance scout phenomenon. Much like the well documented interplanetary visitations during the late 50's and early 60's, the pattern seems to be to send an advance party to the selected area in order to prepare a report for the exploratory organisation. However, unlike politicians and persons from Mars to which we observational types west of the Great Divide have now become daily accustomed, your Darlo interloper has a much more devious approach to infiltration. What he does is adopt the image of a local. The attempt is to remain hidden in full sight. You know the sort of thing; Drizabone, big black hat, moleskins, RM boots, Landcruiser Ute. He also likes to display his affinity with animals, and will often single out the meanest lamb in the mob for his special roping skills.
But don't be fooled friends there is one surefire, dead giveaway, partners. The shades, folks, the shades. You see the sunnies and you knows the truth. All may appear normal, but, be warned. They say the eyes are the window to the soul, so look behind the shades and you'll see what years of attacks by Jackhammerus greatnusianceia can do to the human body. If a void can be described as full of shattered pain, that's what you'll see. It's an everyday experience in Darlo, and it ain't pretty.